‘Chrissake,’ Souter held up a defensive hand.
‘Sorry, pal.’
‘It’s okay.’ Souter wiped his face.
‘All the same, the wife’s at thon age.’
‘And the fella’s no getting his load away.’ Souter made a lewd gesture.
‘And she’s that well set up I bet she wullna give him a divorce.’
‘You reckon the husband done it, then?’ Souter took a slurp of his tea.
‘Who the fuck knows? Miller wiped his bowl clean with what was left of his rowie, stuffed it in his mouth. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing.’
Souter stifled a yawn. ‘What’s that?’
‘Poncy wee prick like him,’ Miller pushed his plate to one side. ‘If we stick it on him he’ll have a gey fine time in Peterhead.’
‘You’re right there. Remember that last perp,’ Souter scratched his head. ‘What was his name? Meechan? Michie? Something like that.’
‘Mutch.’
‘Mutch. Right. Got razored his second day. Hanged himself before the month was out.’
‘Ah, weel.’ Miller grinned. ‘One less.’
Big Fat Zero
In the briefing room there was an air of high expectancy. They’d been called in at short notice: Strachan from filing a report, Dunn from a dental appointment, Duffy and Burnett from their respective actions, Wood from a quick snifter in the Athenaeum. Now, they sat around the table, Susan sipping from a styrofoam cup of coffee, Dunn doodling as usual, all of them quietly speculating on what had prompted the summons.
‘Good evening.’ Chisolm took his place at the head of the table.
‘Evening, sir.’ Four heads looked up.
‘That includes you, Wood.’
Dave Wood raised his head, his expression careworn. He glanced in the direction of the window. The clocks hadn’t yet gone forward. Outside, the sky was a uniform grey. ‘Good, is it, sir?’ His mouth turned down. ‘Hadn’t noticed.’
Chisolm let this go. ‘I’ve called you in,’ he waved an envelope in the air, ‘because we’ve just received the results of the second round of toxicology tests on Sheena Struthers.’
From around the table there was a restless stir.
‘What’s the outcome, sir?’ Douglas was always first off the mark.
‘To summarise,’ Chisolm held the report in front of his face.
Five pairs of eyes fixed on it.
‘The tox screen shows no additional substances.’
‘What about a pre-existing medical condition?’
‘No joy. Other than that injury to her arm, Sheena Struthers was in perfect health.’ He turned to Brian. ‘What does the husband have to say about the injury?’
‘Insists she had a fall.’
Duffy snorted. ‘That’s what they all say.’
‘In the house?’ Chisolm continued.
‘Aye.’ Wood’s cynicism knew no bounds. ‘Fell down the stairs.’
‘Be serious,’ Brian remonstrated. ‘Struthers asserts they were out walking. The wife tripped, put an arm out to save herself. End of story.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘Hard to know. He’s a bit of a stuffed shirt, Gordon Struthers. Doesn’t give a lot away.’
‘This walk, where did it take place?’
‘Catterline.’
‘Now,’ Dunn said portentously, ‘there’s a thing.’
Chisolm cocked an eyebrow.
‘Ex-fishing village, sir. Known for its views.’ He smirked. ‘Clifftop views.’
Chisolm frowned. ‘You inferring this fall may not have been accidental?’
Hastily, Douglas rearranged his face. ‘Just opening up the discussion, sir.’
‘Christ.’ Dave Wood’s mouth turned down. ‘Where does that leave us?’
‘We need to look elsewhere. Establish the who, the what, the why. Then, and maybe only then, we’ll find out the how. First off,’ Chisolm engaged each of them in turn, ‘we have to ask ourselves why Sheena Struthers would want to kill herself? Or why someone would want her dead?’
‘I’m still with the change of life,’ Duffy insisted. ‘My Sadie’s been…’
‘Tell me about it,’ Wood jumped in. ‘They dry up.’ He made a face. ‘Down there. Talk about chucking a banana down Union Street?’ He made a lewd gesture.
‘I was going to say…’ Duffy came back.
‘Joking apart,’ Susan intervened. ‘The menopause may have significance here. You guys crack jokes about it, and women make light of it – the hot flushes, the night sweats – but there’s more to it than that. A lot more. It’s a seismic shock to a woman’s body, both physical and mental. It changes everything: not just the ability to conceive, but her skin, hair, libido. Her entire function as a woman.’
‘I’m with you there,’ Duffy again. ‘The wife, she’s been solid all these years. No dramatics. But since the change set in she’ll turn on the waterworks at the least thing. And it’s not just tears. There’s that much bottled up in there, it’s like bloody Vesuvius erupting.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Chisolm said hastily. ‘I’m sure we all found that very…’ He paused. ‘Instructive.’
‘According to the feedback from your interview with Mrs Laird, sir,’ Susan picked up the thread of her argument, ‘Sheena Struthers, thoughout their interaction, was in a highly emotional state.’
‘Well, she would be, wouldn’t she,’ Douglas responded, ‘if her allegation the husband is trying to kill her has any substance.’
‘So,’ Chisolm stepped in. ‘Other than the sleep disturbance she took to her GP and the demonstrable anxiety she exhibited to Mrs Laird, what do we know?’
‘Big fat zero,’ Dave Wood muttered. ‘Woman had it all for Chrissake.’
‘Not a suicide attempt, then?’
‘Menopausal or not, there’s no evidence Sheena Struthers’ mind was unbalanced to that degree,’ Brian concurred.
‘Plus,’ Susan continued, ‘on a practical level, no woman I know would attempt suicide in a state of undress, with no makeup and bed hair.’
‘Don’t forget the specs,’ Douglas added.
Susan threw him a withering look.
Chisolm took control. ‘Then we’ll have to start again. Pin down whatever’s been ingested. Or administered, if Sheena Struthers didn’t self-harm. Let’s not rule that out. Whichever it is, what effected that outcome without leaving any trace?’ He turned to Duffy. ‘Sergeant, speak to Mrs Laird again. I want those incidents documented: exact dates, times. No woolly stuff, mind. On second thought,’ he frowned. ‘I’ll do it myself. Burnett,’ he turned back to Brian. ‘You’ve got the measure of the man. Look at his firm. How sound is it? Would Gordon Struthers stand to benefit financially from his wife’s death?’ He paused. ‘Now that the business side’s taken care of, let’s address the personal angle. Is there another woman in the frame? If the wife is, indeed, menopausal and the husband is sexually active, he may be on the lookout for – or have already found – a younger model.’
‘Wouldn’t the…?’ Susan began. She’d have to choose her words carefully. It was a matter of record that Chisolm and Maggie Laird had crossed swords. She settled for, ‘…agency have checked that out?’
‘Maybe.’ Chisolm’s voice was scathing. ‘Maybe not. Douglas.’ His voice rose.
‘Sir.’ Dunn’s head shot up from the pad he was doodling on.
‘You get onto that.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Wood, get yourself down to Catterline, see what you can find out.’
‘Okey-dokey.’ For the first time that day, Dave Wood’s face brightened, probably at the prospect of a free lunch.
‘Susan, you’ll continue to monitor progress at ARI. Given Mrs Struthers’ approach to the…ahem!’ He cleared his throat. ‘PI agency. When she’s a
ble to speak.’ He hesitated. ‘If she’s able to speak, she’s more likely to open up to another woman.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
‘And all of you,’ Chisolm eyed each of his team in turn, ‘make it quick. Pull in a couple of uniform if need be. And keep me in the loop. I’ve a gold meeting on the cards and, given our last saga with Harcus & Laird, I want this one out my hair.’
A Long Night
‘DC Strachan.’ Susan showed her card. ‘To see Mrs Struthers.’
‘Let me check with the charge nurse.’ The fresh-faced girl at the nurse’s station looked no more than eighteen. Made Susan, in her work outfit of grey trouser suit and serviceable white shirt, feel middle-aged. Like the woman she’d been sent to take a statement off. Why me? she thought wryly. For all the edicts on gender equality that emanated from on high, she still felt like the token tottie on the team.
‘I’m afraid it’s not convenient right now.’ In what seemed like seconds the girl was back behind the desk.
Susan squared her shoulders. ‘Says who?’
‘Charge nurse.’
Frowning, Susan’s eyes dropped to the girl’s name badge. Lauren Mitchell.
‘Well, Lauren, you go back and tell your charge nurse that someone rang police headquarters not an hour ago to say the patient had regained consciousness.’
‘But…’ The girl hesitated.
‘Go on,’ Susan urged.
With a look of abject terror, the nurse scuttled down the wide corridor, her white rubber clogs making small slurping sounds on the linoleum.
Susan waited, her fingers drumming impatiently on the desktop.
‘How can I help?’ The woman who returned with the girl was small, but had a steely glint in her eye.
‘You can help,’ Susan drew a steadying breath, ‘by pointing me in the direction of your patient, Mrs Sheena Struthers.’
‘Mrs Struthers is not able to speak right now.’
‘But,’ Susan eyed up the well-upholstered figure, the feet planted apart, the severe haircut, ‘we’ve been advised otherwise.’
‘Well, you’ve been advised wrong.’
Inwardly, Susan groaned. Another cock-up. And one, given the paucity of resources, the squad could well do without. ‘She has recovered consciousness?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Then why…?’
‘Mrs Struthers remains in a serious condition.’
How serious, Susan wondered? Get me the facts, she could hear her boss’s voice. She debated asking, thought the better of it. Instead directed her gaze to the whiteboard on the wall listing the staff currently on duty. It was headed up by Nurse in Charge: Vi Coutts.
‘Is your patient awake?’ Susan asked pointedly.
Vi pursed her lips. ‘I can’t say.’
Well, what can you bloody say? Susan wanted to scream. Except there was no point taking the woman on. Susan knew she’d have to keep in Vi’s good books if she was going to get a result.
She plastered a smile on her face. ‘We need to take a statement from Mrs Struthers, and I’ll get blue murder from my boss if I go back empty-handed.’ Conspiratorial look. ‘You know how it is. So would it be okay if I sit by the bed for a bit? Just on the off-chance?’ Seeing the doubt on Vi’s face: ‘I’ll be quiet,’ she added.
‘Doubt you’ll get anything today,’ the charge nurse insisted. ‘Patient’s heavily medicated.’
‘All the same,’ Susan hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, took a decisive step forward. ‘If you’ll lead the way.’
*
Susan perched on the edge of a high-backed blue vinyl chair. Alongside her, Sheena Struthers lay, arms tethered loosely to machines by transparent tubing, a catheter snaking from under the bedclothes. On a stand by the bed, the drip that fed her body with nutrients ran to the cannula that was secured by a square of pink plaster to the back of Sheena Struthers’ left hand. It curled loosely on the tight-fitted sheet, the ring finger decked, still, with diamonds. Funny, that. Susan was used to seeing bodies devoid of ornament. Except this woman wasn’t dead, the DC had to remind herself, whatever the intent that had landed her here.
She extended a tentative forefinger and stroked the woman’s face. There was no response. She repeated the movement, running her finger from cheekbone to chin, like you would a tiny baby. Sheena Struthers’ skin was soft under her touch, but tinged with grey. And not moist, as you might expect, but paper-dry, a consequence perhaps of the hospital’s hothouse temperature. Other than small furrows between the brows and a light wrinkling of the forehead, her face exhibited scant signs of ageing. Comes of leading a pampered life, Susan judged. For the nth time she speculated as to what had rendered Sheena comatose, and why.
Still in her mid-twenties, it was hard for Susan to understand what could have driven the woman to such desperation, more so since she appeared to lead a charmed life. Susan had seen it often enough in her short career: women so tired or so desperate they’d do anything to achieve oblivion. Not women like this, though. She eyed the white gold band, the engagement ring with its fat solitaire, the eternity band studded with brilliants. Couldn’t be short of a bob or two, yet Sheena Struthers’ life was so empty she’d wanted to end it.
Once in a while, one of Sheena’s limbs would twitch. Her mouth might work, perhaps, or her eyelids flutter. Then, Susan would rise from the chair. She’d bend low over the bed. Sheena, she’d mouth, her lips against the woman’s ear. And again, louder, Sheena. With all her mental strength, Susan willed the woman on the bed to waken. God knew what that bloody Douglas was up to, out there in the middle of the action, while she was stuck with this dame in an overheated room. A private room at that. It’s alright for some.
Susan wondered if the husband had pulled strings to secure this privacy. Then she revised her thoughts. It was probably standard practice to put someone in a private room once they’d been discharged from ITU until they were strong enough to be moved to a ward.
She glanced up at the oversized clock on the wall. In accordance with hospital policy, she’d turned off her phone. Susan’s shift had ended, so she was on her own time. But, determined to prove herself to her inspector, she resolved to give it another couple of hours.
She tried to snuggle down into the high-backed chair, but the plastic upholstery was unyielding.
Above her head, the drip plopped hypnotically.
Susan yawned.
It was going to be a long night.
VI
Brannigan
‘On yer bikes,’ the barmaid stood, feet apart, a clutch of dirty beer glasses in both hands. She jerked her head towards the exit.
‘Aw, come oan,’ the larger of the two men, a squat figure in a combat jacket, protested. ‘Jist gie us five meenits.’
‘Come on yer face.’ The barmaid jutted her chin. ‘I’ve asked you once already.’
‘But…’ he began.
The man’s companion – slight, weasel-faced – laid a hand on his arm. ‘Dinna make waves, Shuggie. Mind what ah said aboot me keepin a low profile.’
‘But, Bobby,’ his friend wailed, ‘ah’m no feenished ma pint.’
‘Ah ken.’ Bobby Brannigan laid a consoling hand on his arm. ‘But better that than…’ His head swam with nightmarish images. He’s kept it down since the night he’d been abducted by Wilma Harcus and her two big loons, frog-marched down the nick.
‘You should have thought of that,’ the barmaid took a decisive step forward, ‘when I asked you the first time.’
‘For Christ’s sake.’ Shuggie drained his glass. ‘Can a man no have a pint in peace?’
‘I’ll give you peace,’ the barmaid plonked the empty glasses down on the next table. She brandished a well-used dishcloth. ‘Time to call it a day, Rambo. No arguing.’
‘We’re goin’.’ Brannigan tugged at his companion’s sleeve.
‘Is that no right, Shuggie?’
‘Aye.’ Shuggie rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Thanks to Miss World here.’ He contemplated the barmaid with bloodshot eyes. ‘Talk about fuckin hospitality.’
She grinned. ‘Gentlemen.’ She flourished a hand. ‘Let me show you the door.’
*
Eyes downcast, Bobby Brannigan weaved an uncertain path along the pavement. One outcome of consecutive years of Council cutbacks had been a rash of potholes and uneven paving slabs. Those, together with the hulking plastic refuse bins that sat abandoned at all angles and the black bin bags whose contents had been forensically dissected by marauding seagulls, made for slow progress.
Every few steps, he darted a nervous glance behind. Bobby had been on the point of asking Shuggie to chum him home, on the pretence of offering his pal a bevy. Thought better of it. Shuggie lived in the opposite direction. And, besides, it wouldn’t do much for Bobby’s reputation as a hard man. His bladder strained uncomfortably. He’d been caught short, was pissing in a shop doorway when the big private eye had nabbed him. He clenched his arse. Wouldn’t make that mistake twice.
A haar had drifted in off the North Sea. It hung, heavy with moisture, blurring the outlines of the buildings, the kerb and the shop doorways. It smelled dank, raw, filling Bobby’s nostrils and working its way under his shirt collar. Cursing, he hiked his jacket higher on his shoulders. Pinching his nostrils with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, he howked a gob of phlegm into the cupped palm of the other and wiped it on his trouser leg.
‘Fucksake!’ He tripped over a bag of takeaway cartons. Momentarily off-balance, he thrust out a hand to steady himself, hoping to find the wall. Instead, his fingers found something soft. Cloth, maybe. No, wool. Rough wool, like a…a…
‘That yourself, Bobby?’ A disembodied voice came out of the gloom.
‘Wh-wha is it?’ Bobby stuttered. His heart pounded. His mind ran like a steam train. He’d lain doggo since thon drugs trial. Seen no one. Said nothing to nobody. Well, no one except for thon fat cow with her dodgy recording gadget. And, he reassured himself, that was months ago.
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